


In the Velvet Net

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just some Drift/Wing MTMTE ish thing for tf-rare-pairing</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Velvet Net

 

Drift tore himself from recharge, limbs trembling, air panting through his ventilation systems.  The darkness around him seemed to echo, as though catching the tail end of a fleeing scream.

Here. You’re here. Here on the _Lost Light_. That’s the ship’s engine you can feel vibrating under you. That’s the shape of the porthole to your right, and if you look, you’ll see the veil of stars. You’re here. You’re here.

But.

He sucked a vent of air, feeling the coolness rattle through his heated systems as he cast his mind back to recall the shreds of the dream. He was back in Crystal City, the shattered towers and ruined walls tumbled down around him. A site of ruin, blame seeming to whisper at him from every crooked wall, every wrenched angle.   

Gone. Everything gone.  And it wasn’t until he saw the ruins, smelled the decay and age, heard his footfalls echo the way they only do in vast, abandoned spaces, turning each step into a ripple of the sobs of ghosts that he realized how much hope he’d placed in Theophany and Crystal City, in forging the future by bringing together their pasts.

He felt as devastated as the city itself, all the more for having it torn from him by the Galactic Council. There was a flicker of anger, like a pilot light in the back of his mind, at them, but it was battered down under the weight of the loss: not just his personal hope, his selfish need to help fix what he’d spent so long breaking, but the loss of the whole city, all those lives, all this learning. They hadn’t even had a chance to check the chrestomaths.

He cycled a vent, stretching himself out along the berth again, trying, with effort, to slow his racing mind as it seemed intent on digging up every possibly recrimination, every possible step along the path he could have trod differently. Despair seemed a palpable thing, pressing down upon him, almost flattening him to the berth, the darkness crowding around him, thick with regret and the frayed threads of hope.

No, he thought. Breathe. Relax. Don’t give into it, Drift, don’t let it win.

But how do you fight something like your own mind? He didn’t know.

Surrender.  A cool thread across his mind, a thought and a voice not his. Don’t fight.

His vent sounded too much like a whine, in the darkness, as he let recharge take him again, pulling him under, trying to let go. Trying to surrender.

The darkness seemed to catch him, like a net of velvet, thick and plush and for a long time that was all he knew: weight and darkness. But his mind was blissfully dark, as though the chaos of thoughts scattered and melted away. 

Surrender, he thought. Stop fighting.

He felt himself sinking deeper. It felt like one time in the gutters, when the gravlift had failed and he and Gasket had fallen, plunging past levels, clinging to each other in panic.  He felt the same kind of fear tendril around him now, and he had to force himself calm.

A light, glimmering and faint, around him, like a door opened, and he was racing toward it, without will, without thought, just…falling.

Into light.

Into…Wing.

“Drift.”  He could hear the voice, even after all these years, that almost fluting timbre, strong yet light and flexible.

He tried to speak, but he couldn’t form words: they seemed to slip away from him, and it was all he could to to see, to hear. He stretched out a hand to Wing, who seemed to glow before him, milky and pure and beautiful.

“Drift,” Wing said, moving toward the offered hand, pulling Drift up effortlessly and into his arms.

It was a dream. It had to be. Nothing but a dream, the kind of phantasm his cortex had cooked up in the gutters all the time, fantasies of comfort and happiness that just hurt all the more when he awoke and had to confront the fact that they were unreal.  He’d thought he’d grown out of that. It felt like a blow to realize he had made so little change, so little progress.

But Wing didn’t feel like a dream: he felt warm and alive, and the voice was just right and the glow of his optics was warmer than a sun. 

“It’s gone,” he managed, finally. Just the two words, already more than he could bear to say.

“Nothing is gone,” Wing said, stroking a black hand down Drift’s helm, before dropping to the flat span of his chestplate. “Nothing is gone so long as it lives in here.” 

“Wing.” He wanted to argue; the last thing he wanted to do was argue.  This moment—imaginary or unreal or whatever it was—was too precious to waste in argument. They’d already wasted too much.

“Have faith,” Wing said. “Have hope.” He leaned forward, and the gold of his optics dazzled Drift, the brush of his mouthplates on Drift’s a sudden, silken shock, a kiss he couldn’t imagine imagining, and his world became a beautiful swirl of color and heat that seemed to spin a cocoon around his spark, netting it with warmth and light.  “Any light,” Wing whispered, the words somehow not breaking the kiss between them, “breaks the darkness. And any hope, however thin, can be spun into a rope to pull oneself  free.”

Drift clung to Wing—the words and the frame against his—his own hope, his own golden light, and the darkness and weight seemed to recede, the way the dawn broke the bowl of night. And at least in his own body, the light was no longer quite as lost. 


End file.
